The still explosions

The still explosions on the rocks,

the lichens, grow

by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.

They have arranged to meet

the rings around the moon, although

within our memories they have not changed.

And since the heavens will attend

as long on us,

you’ve been, dear friend,

precipitate and pragmatical;

and look what happens. For Time is

nothing if not amenable.

The shooting stars in your black hair

in bright formation

are flocking where,

so straight, so soon?

— Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,

battered and shiny like the moon.

Elizabeth Bishop, “Shampoo”.

Lemon pop

Because how could you not feel happy looking at these, and we all need a bit of yellow to lift us through the SAD.



I actually went down an Internet rabbit hole looking for a magazine image I couldn’t find, but I found these instead. Images a mix of internet finds from and Pinterest, and my own photos on the hoof.

The heron-priested shore

It was my thirtieth year to heaven

Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood

And the mussel pooled and the heron-priested shore

The morning beckon

With water praying and call of seagull and rook

And the knock of sailing boats on the net-webbed wall

Myself to set foot

That second

In the still sleeping town and set forth.


The first verse of  “it was my thirtieth year to heaven” by Dylan Thomas.

Move over Tate


My final posting from Leipzig is from the stunning Museum der bildenen Kunste, which frankly makes Tate Modern look like a piece of shite.

The display, building and main collection are faultless and I could have happily spent a whole day in here. Till October there is also a first class exhibition of documentary photography from the 1950s-80s in the GDR. Between this and Louisiana, my eye candy is fixed.

All photos August 2016.

What are we called now?


Another staggering read from Persephone. It annoys me that their books are mainly on social media for their tasteful grey covers (example of an offending photo above by me) when the contents are so good. Their house has moved subtly from good middlebrow novels to much deeper, angrier works.

Earlier this year I read Into the Whirlwind, the memoir of a party member swept up in Stalin’s purges. This time it was Maman, what are we called now?, a poetic, yearning, angry, heart-rending diary of a French Jewish mother in occupied Paris and accompanying journalism from 1945, which I found even more striking and powerful than the diary.